


the temple of bondage

by sabinelagrande



Series: Indiana Jones and the Agents of SHIELD [2]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: (I Apologize For That Tag), Baby's First BDSM, Collars, Cuffs, Does Sex In The SHIELD Gym Count As Public Sex?, Dom Phil Coulson, Dom/sub, Dungeon, Everybody Always Wears Leather Pants, Everyone Is Always Undercover In Sex Clubs, Except They Didn't Lock The Door, Flogging, Held Down, Impact Play, Kink Negotiation, Leashes, M/M, Painplay, Public Nudity, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sub Clint Barton, Subspace, Which Is Not Very Sane, Whips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-28
Updated: 2012-07-09
Packaged: 2017-11-04 11:15:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabinelagrande/pseuds/sabinelagrande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the mission to go off, someone's got to top, and someone's got to bottom. Clint's got ideas as to who is who.</p><p>Clint is wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Undercover ops are not Clint's specialty, but this one- Clint isn't even sure what he thinks about it.

"So we have to infiltrate a sex club?" Clint asked incredulously, looking at the dossier.

"Dungeon," Coulson corrected, as if it wasn't strange at all that he knew the difference and felt the need to make sure Clint's terminology was correct. He gave Clint a look. "You know what this means."

"Every damn time," Clint sighed, leaning back in his chair. Seventy-five percent of SHIELD undercover assignments hinge upon somebody pretending to be involved with somebody else- married is a favorite, and Clint couldn't decide if this was better or worse. "Of course I'm the-" Clint made a vague motion with his hand- "the top, or whatever."

Coulson raised an eyebrow at him. "Why is that?"

"Because it's not believable the other way around," he said. "It can't be you. The business guys, they're always the ones who want to crawl on the floor and lick boots."

Coulson's face twitched, and Clint couldn't decide if he was trying not to burst out laughing or trying not to punch Clint in the face. "We'll try it that way, then."

That didn't seem to bode well, but Clint went with it; so now here they are, and the situation has not improved.

Clint doesn't know who bought this whip; he doesn't understand why, but the idea that someone special ordered it for this situation is somehow way less weird than the idea that they just had one lying around. It's stiff, though, like it's not broken in, which is a point towards less weird.

It's really hard to get accustomed to; it's not like anything Clint's ever tried before. He's used to straight lines, windspeed and the archer's paradox being the only things that keep him from going directly from point A to point B. This thing, not only is it not really straight, but there aren't any damn points at all. It's not like he won't be able to do it, mind, it's just that he already knows it's going to be a challenge- not a problem, just a challenge.

He's been working with the whip for maybe forty-five minutes or so, trying to get the hang of it. Clint spent all day watching instructional videos on YouTube, except for the hour or two he lost to mashups and Krav Maga demos; he's learned everything else he knows by seeing other people do it, and this shouldn't be any different. It is, though. Maybe he was watching the wrong kind, because this whip is shorter than any of those, and it doesn't want to act the same way. It also didn't really occur to him that maybe he should be watching videos where people actually got hit with whips- but frankly, the idea is still scary.

He tries it again, circling the whip around his head to crack it, but it still won't work. Coulson is getting increasingly more irritated, and Clint can easily tell. It's just that Clint can't tell what he's doing wrong. He's trying his level best with the whip, and it's not like Coulson could do any better.

"For Christ's sake, Barton," Coulson snaps. "It's a signal whip, not a bullwhip. You don't spin it over your head and hope for the best. If you're going to crack it, crack it and stop screwing around."

That was an oddly specific criticism, and Clint isn't quite sure how to interpret it. "Look, I'm doing what I can over here."

Coulson pushes off the wall, walking over; he puts his palm out, and Clint hands him the whip, just to see where this is going. Coulson just stands there for a minute, looking at him, before Clint takes the hint and backs away- this is why Coulson is the one who makes plans. He raises the whip, and just like that he cracks it, like it's the most natural thing in the world, like he's done it a thousand times. It is _really_ loud, a lot louder than Clint expected, almost as loud as a gunshot.

Coulson lowers his arm and cracks it again, then once more; he hands it back to Clint, and Clint just stares at him. "Um," he says. "So, that's new."

"Not exactly," Coulson tells him; he's blushing very faintly, but he's still looking Clint in the eye, as if nothing is wrong. "Here," he says. "Put the handle in your right hand." When he does it, Coulson bends his arm up for him and raises it so his hand is about level with his ear. "Other hand here," he says, taking the other one and putting it on the other side of his neck, fingers open. Coulson puts the other end of the whip in Clint's free hand. "Now straighten your elbow. Too slow and it won't crack, too fast and you'll hit yourself."

Clint tries it once, but still nothing happens. "Too slow. Again," Coulson says, and this time when Clint does it, it cracks, satisfyingly crisp and clear. Now that he gets it, he realizes that it's like firing a bow in a lot of ways, load and release. "See?"

"Not bad," Clint says, cracking it a few more times. 

"Good," Coulson says. He takes his jacket off, unbuttoning his shirt. "Let's move on."

Clint stares at him for a minute. "Are we, uh-"

"You're not going to get anywhere standing around cracking it," Coulson tells him, pulling off his undershirt. "You've got to be ready to actually hit people with it."

Clint looks down at the whip in his hand. "Are you sure you actually want me to do this?"

"You can't hurt me with that," Coulson says, in a way that makes Clint really want to try- which he suspects was Coulson's goal all along. "Don't hit me in the face and we're fine. It's not the same as you just did, when you want to pop someone with it. Let me show you."

Clint is about to hand the whip over, but he stops. "I don't want to do this."

Coulson's face gets very serious. "Barton, I need you to answer me truthfully: have you ever been in a situation-"

"No, no, god no," Clint says, cutting him off, and Coulson relaxes. "It's not like that. I just don't want to hurt someone unless I'm supposed to."

Coulson raises an eyebrow at him. "You're supposed to."

"That came out wrong," Clint says, shutting his eyes. "I don't want to hurt someone unless they're a target. This doesn't feel right."

Coulson gives him a considering look. "I think we're just going to have to teach you to flog instead."

"I'm starting to think I'm not the one who should worry about training," Clint mutters, licking his lip; all this is very strange, but the way Coulson's handling it, like it's second nature, is very attractive, for some reason.

"Teaching and training are two different things, Barton," Coulson says, and his voice has gotten deeper. "If you're going to be ready for this job, you've got to do one or the other. Up to you."

Clint swallows. "So you teach me to use the whip, or you train me to take it?"

"Among other things," Coulson says, and Clint realizes that they're pretty close together, that it's a pretty small room. The door is shut, and it locks on voice command; the security cameras are on, but Clint's pretty sure Coulson has authorization to turn them off. He's not really sure why he's taking stock of all this, but it suddenly seems really important to know what he's working with here.

It clicks for him, right then. "You already knew," Clint says, narrowing his eyes. "You knew you were going to end up on top."

"I thought I'd give you a fair chance," he says innocently, but Clint's not buying it.

"You were just screwing with me," Clint says.

"You're the one who decided which of us would do what," Coulson reminds him. "Maybe you needed to learn a lesson about underestimating me."

Coulson really cannot go around saying shit like that and expect Clint to function. "I don't want to learn," Clint says, before he can overthink it, and he holds the whip out. "I'd rather be trained."

Clint is expecting something to happen then, for Coulson to force him to his knees or call him his bitch or something, but Coulson just nods. "Let's do the easy part first," he says, taking the whip away from Clint. "Take your shirt off and brace yourself against the wall. I'm going to whip you-" that sends a shiver up Clint's spine, and he really doesn't know if it's a good one or a bad one- "until I think you've had enough, or until you tell me to stop- I really will stop if you tell me to. Do you understand?"

"How is this the easy part?" Clint manages to say.

"All you have to do is stand still," Coulson tells him. "Do you want to do this? This only happens if you want it to happen."

"I'm fine," Clint says, pulling off his shirt and tossing it onto the floor. "Let's just go."

"Get in position," Coulson says, and Clint goes. There's some padding on the wall, and Clint puts his hands on it, his fingertips pressing in a little. Coulson is moving around behind him, fussing with something; Clint jumps about a foot when Coulson puts a hand on his shoulder. "Just me," he says, sounding amused.

Coulson smooths his hands across Clint's back, his touch warm and comforting- two things that Clint was pretty sure would never apply to the man. Clint is aware that he's tense, possibly shaking a little, but he's earned it on this one. He's done and been willing to do some pretty strange and scary shit for this job, but this is a completely different matter.

When Clint's relaxed a little, Coulson steps away. "Get ready," he says, and Clint tries not to tense right up again. "I'm going to start now. I may not make contact the first few times."

Clint's pretty sure he should have some smartass comment to make, but he doesn't. He just waits for it, his fingers digging into the padding. Coulson is moving the whip and it's making noises, but Clint's still not feeling anything.

And suddenly Coulson hits it just right. "Jesus Christ!" Clint yelps, jumping.

"Too much?" Coulson asks, and Clint can hear the amusement in his voice.

"That shit _stings_ ," he says. "I wasn't expecting it."

"First one's always the worst," Coulson says mildly, and Clint knows somehow that that is a total lie. "More?"

Clint rounds his shoulders, trying to be ready for it this time. "Yeah, hit me."

Coulson isn't given to casual swearing, usually saves it for his very, very occasional tirades; so when he mutters, "Fucking hell," under his breath, Clint knows something non-work-related is definitely going on here- he had an idea, wasn't a hundred percent, but yeah, now it's clear.

It is not a problem.

Before he can do a whole lot more thinking, Coulson pops him again, on the other side, up near his shoulder blade. It really doesn't hurt as much as it did before, though it still hurts pretty badly. He does it again and again, peppering Clint's back with marks. He's got really good aim with that thing, because then he picks out a spot and starts hitting it over and over, dead on. It sucks really badly, and Clint grits his teeth; he's trying to take it, mostly to prove that he can, also because it feels good in this really weird way, like he's never felt before.

Determination only lasts so long, though. "Shit," he hisses, balling his hand into a fist and pounding on the wall. "Shit, shit, okay, _fuck_ , uncle, fucking _uncle_!"

Coulson immediately stops; he steps forward, putting his hand on the back of Clint's neck and leaning in to look him the face. "Are you okay?"

Clint laughs breathlessly. "You're a dick with that thing, Coulson."

"You always think I'm a dick," he points out.

"Yeah, well, it's really obvious right now," Clint says. "More than usual."

Coulson grins, but then he's all business again. "Do you want to stop?"

"Um," Clint says. His head is starting to feel a little foggy- it's not bad, not bad enough that he's worried about it too much. It actually feels weirdly good. "No, yeah, I'm good to go," Clint tells him. He grins back at him. "Just don't hit me there again, dick."

Coulson snorts. "I'm going to do something different now," he says. "The whip is going to come across your back on the diagonal." He runs his finger over Clint's back, illustrating, and even though Coulson's just been whipping him so they can go to a sex dungeon or whatever, the touch of his finger is somehow way more charged. "It's probably going to hurt more. If you need or want to, stop me."

"Got it," Clint says; he's getting a little tired of how Coulson keeps telling him that over and over again, like Clint doesn't know or expect it. Then he realizes what it would be like if Coulson _didn't_ say that, if he wasn't quite so sure that Coulson always has his best interests in mind, and suddenly it doesn't seem so unnecessary.

Coulson runs his hands up through Clint's hair for a moment before he steps away, and if Clint leans into it, well, that's between him and god.

"Starting now," Coulson says, and he barely wastes any time in bringing the whip down on Clint's back. It actually doesn't hurt nearly as badly as Clint was expecting; some of the tension goes out of his shoulders, and he settles himself a little more firmly against the wall. It's not like the other way, because Coulson doesn't have to stop in between strikes, can just keep laying down stripes on Clint's back. Even without seeing, Clint can feel how carefully he's doing it, the lines falling next to one another instead of crisscrossing.

"Why're you so good at this?" Clint says, and he's slurring a little, he can tell.

"Story for another time, Barton," Coulson says, sounding a little embarrassed.

Clint's starting to really get into this, and he wonders if that's a bad thing or not. The idea that someone is hurting him and he likes it, that's a pretty big idea to get a grip on, especially when he's spent a very long time working in a place where getting hurt is more or less part of the job description. There's something different about it, though, something that separates the two. He's never really been tortured, just beaten up- god bless bad guys with no imagination- so it's not like he has any bad memories associated with it. If Coulson wanted to punch him or something, that would probably be different; this is something completely unrelated, something that has nothing to do with work at all.

There is the fact that his handler's giving it to him, but, well, fraternization is something that Clint is already well-versed in.

Coulson stops, and Clint feels like protesting. "Are you with me, Clint?" he asks, rubbing circles at the small of Clint's back.

"Yes, sir," he says; it takes him a second to catch up to what that sounded like. "Shit, sorry, reflex."

"It's fine," Coulson says, in that "I'm trying not to sound upset" voice that he has; Clint can't tell if he's upset that Clint said it or upset that Clint didn't mean it. If Coulson would just share with the rest of the class, Clint could fix it pretty quickly. If he doesn't want Clint to say it, he'll make sure he doesn't, but Clint will sir him all day long if it makes him happy. He already does it, and it doesn't bother him at all to do it. Clint's a smartass, but he does what Coulson says, because he respects him, because he trusts him, because Coulson is way better at not fucking up than Clint is.

"I'm good for more," Clint says, shamelessly arching his back- a little to distract Coulson, and a little for himself, because it just feels good, the pain sort of moving around with his muscles. "Come on, hit me again."

Coulson sighs, sounding exasperated and turned on in equal measure, but provoking that response is one of Clint's specialties. "Just a little more," he says, and before Clint is ready, Coulson hits him; it hurts more this time, the pain singing across his skin. It's pretty bad, but it's starting to be good that it hurts, and that doesn't make any sense, but Clint's okay with rolling with that. As far as Clint is concerned, Coulson can keep doing this just as long as he likes, until he's good and done, because Clint is fine and dandy right here.

But then it doesn't hurt as much, and then it hurts less, and then Coulson isn't doing anything at all. More would be so nice, but it's also nice to stand here and put his head against the wall, letting it take his weight; Clint is feeling very agreeable right at the moment.

Coulson steps in close to him again, running his hands over Clint's back. It hurts, but it's worth it, the comfort of a nice, warm Coulson; he turns, and he knows he's clinging, but he doesn't care much. Coulson just lets Clint hang onto him, keeps stroking his back.

"We're going to walk over there," Coulson says. "Be careful," he adds, and Clint is kind of shocked when they get all the way back to their clothes without Clint falling over or making a smart comment. Coulson sits down, bringing Clint with him, and Clint doesn't feel bad at all about huddling up against him. Coulson leans over, grabbing the sleeve of his suit jacket and tugging it towards him. Clint's pretty shocked when Coulson tucks it in around him; he hadn't even realized he was cold.

"Am I bleeding onto your jacket?" Clint asks blearily.

"No," Coulson tells him, rubbing his hands up and down Clint's arms. "I didn't cut you."

"That's pretty cool," Clint says, because it feels like he did, the way his skin hurts.

"Thanks," Coulson says, and his voice isn't nearly as sarcastic as Clint knows it could be.

Clint tilts his head back, so he can look at Coulson, albeit kind of awkwardly and sort of upside down. He's trying to articulate how he feels, how impressed he is by Coulson, how mindblowingly hot that was, how much he wants to do it again, how connected he feels they are at this moment; of course, what comes out is, "I really want to suck your dick right now."

Coulson lets out a sigh; it sounds like he's been holding it back for a while. "I really want to let you," he admits, stroking Clint's hair, "but I can't. That's the endorphins talking."

"That's the Barton talking," Clint says, and it's really funny, but he doesn't giggle, because that doesn't seem like it would help his case. "The endorphins are just along for the ride."

Coulson pauses for a moment, his hand stilling on Clint's hair. "Tell the Barton to come talk to me without the endorphins, and we'll see what we can do."

"Ten-four," Clint says, grabbing one of his hands and wrapping Coulson's arm around himself. He looks vaguely off into the middle distance, and he thinks about nothing.

This mission is going to be _awesome_.


	2. Chapter 2

Clint knows what he likes in bed. He likes simple: he likes a nice long blowjob, he likes a good solid fuck, he doesn't like to be on top because it's a lot of work and he always feels uncomfortable, he likes the warm weight of someone holding him down with their body. 

Scratch that- until three days ago, Clint knew what he liked in bed.

And then his handler got after him with a whip, and now he has no idea.

It takes two of those days to work up the courage; it takes most of the third one to actually _find_ Phil- because, of course, once Clint goes to look for him, Phil's nowhere to be found. Clint ends up lying in wait for him at the vending machine where he gets his afternoon snack, usually some atrocious artificially-sweetened baked good.

Phil finally turns up around three-thirty, making a beeline for the machine and dropping in his quarters. "Afternoon, Barton," he says, and Clint didn't even know he'd laid eyes on him; then again, that's Phil.

"Hey," Clint says. He's down to now-or-never time, but still he's stalling. "That stuff I said the other day," he says, and Phil freezes, lifting an eyebrow at him. "I still mean it."

Phil looks around- not in a 'I'm checking for listeners' kind of way, but in a 'what the fuck, Barton' kind of way, which Clint is very familiar with. " _This_ is where you chose to bring it up?"

"Did you really want to get an email like that?" Clint asks.

"Point," Phil allows. "Come over tonight and we'll talk about it."

Clint nods, swallowing. "Nineteen-hundred okay?"

"Make it twenty," Phil says, opening his sticky bun and taking a bite.

"Will do," Clint says, and that's that, with that totally mundane conversation, Clint's fate is more or less sealed.

Clint's five minutes late getting to Phil's, which isn't like him at all, but a lot of this isn't like him at all. He's only been to Phil's apartment a handful of times, and he feels kind of awkward standing at the door of this totally mundane-looking apartment in this totally mundane-looking building, given what the hell he's about to do here.

"Clint," Phil says, when he opens the door- Clint, not Barton, and that means something. "Come in. Have you eaten?"

"Uh, no, actually," Clint says, and Phil sits him down and makes him a ham sandwich, which does a surprising amount to calm his stomach and his nerves. They make small talk while they eat, which suits Clint just fine; he could really use something to take the edge off, and he gets the feeling alcohol should not be involved in this situation.

"We need to go over this mission a little better first," Clint says, pushing his plate away, "because I'm not clear on what all this, uh, training is supposed to consist of."

"Two things," Phil says, popping the last bit of his sandwich into his mouth and chewing. "These people we're going to have contact with, they don't fuck around. They're not weekend warriors. If we're doing this, I need to train you to take it and make it look good. That's the part for work."

"Did you get trained?" Clint asks.

"A long time ago," Phil says. "Shouldn't dish it out if you don't know what it feels like to take it."

"And then there's the part that's not for work," Clint says.

"That's the part that's harder," Phil says. "Lots of options, there."

"I'm not good with options, not for this." Clint says, and Phil gets a funny smile on his face. "So I guess you won the coin toss."

Phil's face turns serious. "I know we were messing around earlier, but if you think this is about me winning and you losing, then we're not doing this. Nobody loses, Clint. This isn't a zero-sum game."

"I still don't quite get it," Clint tells him.

"The reason to do this is to get what you need," Phil says. "If you do it right, everybody gets what they need, everybody wins."

"Gotcha," Clint says, though he still kinda doesn't. "So you need-"

"I like to be in control," Phil says, like it's nothing. "That's what I need."

"So what do I need?" Clint asks.

Phil shakes his head. "That's up to you."

Clint gives him a look. "I know you have an idea."

"Honestly? I think nobody's ever expected you to be good in your entire life," Phil tells him. "I think you want to be."

Clint's on the edge of the 'where the fuck do you get off' speech that comes up when anybody says anything about his past, but he stops. He's the one who asked the question; he's the one who wanted an honest answer. He thinks about it instead, and it's hard to deny that the first part is true. It's just the second part, the things that it implies, that's the big problem. "What do I get if I'm good?"

"You get what I say you get," Phil says, and something about that touches something shivery inside Clint. "If you're good, I'll take care of you, and we can go down this road. If you don't want to be good, then this is where it stops. I don't deal with angry brats. Smart-asses, on the other hand, I have no problem with."

"That's a damn good thing," Clint says. "So this is where we draw up a contract, right?"

"Here's rule one," Phil says. "You are not to believe a goddamn word you read on the internet. You will read decent books and talk to people who aren't morons." It's very, very hard for Clint to retain his composure. "You don't have to pretend it's not funny when I'm fucking around," Phil says, smiling. "It's a little early for that. Maybe we'll never do that. We're not on the clock."

"Makes sense," Clint says. Something's been bothering him, and this seems as good a time as any. "I need to know something."

"You need to know a lot of things," Phil tells him.

"You're not as cute as you think you are," Clint says, and Phil smirks. "The other day- does it bother you if I call you sir?"

Phil's face shuts down. "That's not a word you use when you don't mean it. That's serious."

"Look, I already trust you with my life, I'm trusting you to beat the shit out of me and take care of me," Clint says, a little annoyed at having to explain. "You're already 'sir.'"

Phil looks amazed. He shakes his head. "Sorry," he says. "Nobody's called me that outside of work in a very long time."

"Good," Clint says coldly. "I don't know if you knew, but I'm the jealous type," he adds, apologetically.

The corner of Phil's mouth ticks up. "We'll make a dangerous pair, then. God help us if somebody looks at one of us wrong."

"God help us if somebody looks at _both_ of us wrong," Clint says.

"God help everybody else," Phil says, and Clint laughs. "This doesn't have to be sex," Phil tells him seriously. "If that's not what you want-"

"No, no, I want sex," Clint says hurriedly. "There should definitely be sex."

"There's plenty we need to work out, and it's going to take a while," Phil tells him, "but I heard something about you sucking my dick, and I think that's a better use of our time right now. Come on. Bed."

Clint laughs, but he lets himself be more or less pulled into Phil's bedroom. "Straight to the point."

"Have I ever not been?" Phil points out.

Clint just smiles in response. "So, um, do I get a safeword?" he asks cautiously.

Phil frowns. "Do you need a safeword to suck my dick?" Clint can feel himself blush. "That was a bad question, sorry," Phil says, shaking his head. "Would you feel better if you had a safeword?"

"Maybe?" Clint admits.

"Yellow means slow down, and red means stop," Phil tells him. "Or you can just say 'Stop.' I'm not going to be mean about it." 

Clint can very clearly hear the _yet_ at the end of that sentence. He finds he doesn't have a problem with it. "Got it," Clint says. He grins, feeling a little better now, like he's gotten some of his own back. "Course, I try not to talk with my mouth full-"

"Clint," Phil says firmly, though he still looks amused. "Get on your knees."

It's hard to do, it's much harder to do than he thought. He had this sort of idea in his head that this was all sorted out now, that he wouldn't have to worry about a thing. And yeah, Phil has his shit together, just like always, but it's hard for Clint to get his brain moving.

"Clint," Phil says, and now his voice is softer, concerned. "This ends when you need it to end, but right now I need you to make a decision. I'm not going to hold your answer against you."

Clint takes a deep breath; there's no time like the present. He carefully lowers himself to his knees, looking up at Phil, who seems really, really tall from this angle. This is all kind of ridiculous, honestly, his hesitation. He's been in this position before, he's gotten on his knees for people; it's just that he's never _gotten on his knees_ for anyone, and that's really different. It feels scary and it feels good, like it's a step in the right direction.

"Good," Phil says, and he cards his hand through Clint's hair. "Scared?"

"Oh yeah," Clint tells him.

"Still want to do this?" Phil asks. "We can stop if you want."

"Coulson," Clint snaps, suddenly irritated. "If you keep giving me all these outs, I'm going to take one of them."

"That's not my name," Phil says; his voice doesn't sound different, but he tightens his hand in Clint's hair. "You decided that."

"Sorry, sir," Clint mutters.

"But point taken," Phil says, petting down his hair. "Just haven't done this in a while. And you haven't done this ever."

"I want to," Clint says, shutting his eyes. "Please let me."

Before he realizes what's going on, Phil is kissing him; he had all but decided that was a thing that Phil didn't do, maybe that people didn't do in these situations at all, but now he gets it. Phil's kisses are kind of devastating, hard, quite literally breathtaking, and withholding them is very effective.

Unfortunately, it takes Phil pulling away from him for him to understand this. Clint makes a disappointed noise, but it only makes Phil smile; that's going to be a problem, given that Clint's repertoire of saddened faces and disappointed sounds is extensive, specifically developed for occasions such as these. Or hey, maybe it's going to be an asset, in a backward kind of way, if he learns how to play Phil just right.

"You think loudly," Phil says. "The point is not thinking."

"Right," Clint says. "Not thinking." Clint looks up at him. "That's a really tall order, sir."

Phil shakes his head. "Never said it was going to be easy." He unbuckles his belt, pulling it out of the loops, and for a second Clint's heart stops; but no, he just throws it over the chair. "Take your shirt off," he says, as he unbuttons his fly, zipping down his pants; he lets them drop, stepping out of them and kicking them away. Clint tosses his shirt on top of them, and this is really happening now, this is actually happening, he's really going to suck Phil's cock.

Not Phil.

_Sir._

"Take me out and stroke me," Phil tells him, and Clint tugs Phil's boxer briefs down, wrapping his hand around Phil's cock. It feels good in Clint's hand, big and heavy and hot; it's been a long time since he's had anybody to do this for, and it's nice. "Tighten your grip and do it faster than that," Phil says. Phil's never been one for micromanagement, but this is apparently where he gets it out. Clint's oddly okay with that, right at the moment; he's only halfway sure what he's doing, and it beats the hell out of flying blind.

"That's enough," Phil says, when it's just getting good, when his cock starts to drip precome onto Clint's fingers, and Clint wonders if he might be a little bit of a masochist too. Phil reaches down, running his thumb along Clint's bottom lip for a moment, and Clint kisses it, just to mess with him. "Stop fucking around and suck me off," Phil orders, but he's smiling when he says it.

Clint leans forward, holding Phil's cock steady so that he can get his mouth around it. He shuts his eyes, just holding it there for a moment, working his tongue against it. Goddamn but he loves doing this; it feels good, familiar, something to hold onto while he's in the middle of something so scary, so-

But it's not scary, is it? Despite his nerves, he's having a good time, Phil's having a good time, everything is okay, at least for the moment. He relaxes, taking more of Phil's dick into his mouth, moving his head up and down on it. "See?" Phil says, like he can read Clint's thoughts. "Nothing to worry about. Don't think about it."

Phil has his hand in Clint's hair, and he starts to guide him with it, slowly at first; Clint takes his hand away, letting Phil have him, letting him do what he wants- Clint was always going to do whatever Phil wanted, because that's the name of the game, that's the entire point of this exercise.

Phil starts moving faster, pushing deeper into Clint's mouth, and Clint doesn't do a thing to stop him. It's good, so good to let somebody fuck his mouth like that, and wow, there were definitely warning signs that Clint should have seen before now. He opens his eyes, looking up at Phil, and Phil is looking down at him, his face serious. It's not easy, but Clint winks at him, and Phil snorts in amusement. "I told you to stop fucking around," Phil says, voice strained.

With perfect innocence in his eyes, Clint says, "Yes, sir," right around Phil's dick, and Phil moans.

"Remind me to tell you what a SAM is," Phil says, pushing harder into Clint's mouth. "But not right now."

It's easy to get back into it; they're good together, easy and natural already, which bodes oh-so-well for the future. Clint hopes very much that there is a future; it's not often that so much is riding on a blowjob. Then again, this isn't really like anything else he's done, so maybe it's not that strange in context.

"Stop," Phil says, pulling Clint's head away. He's breathing heavy, and he looks satisfied, so satisfied, in a way that goes beyond sex. "Two choices: you can finish me now, or I can fuck you. This once, it's your decision."

Those are two very attractive options, but it's kind of hard to think it all the way through when he's feeling sort of hazy, relaxed. Either way, he's pretty sure Phil's not going to leave him hanging, so that's not a factor. "I want to do what you want," Clint says truthfully.

Phil raises his eyebrows, looking like he didn't expect that one. "Right now, I want you to make a decision," he says. "Ask me for what you want."

Clint thinks about it; to be perfectly frank, right now he just wants more of Phil's dick, and that seems secondary to how he gets it. "Fuck me," Clint says, looking up at him.

"That's not asking," Phil says. "That's telling."

"This is a lot of thinking," Clint protests; he'd like to think he's not whining, but that might work in his favor, actually. "You said no thinking."

Phil shrugs. "I'm mean."

"Please fuck me," Clint says; it isn't exactly a comfortable feeling, though he figures that's the point. "Please? Come on, just give me your cock, I'll do what you want."

"You are something else," Phil says, shaking his head. "Go on, get undressed and get on the bed."

Clint hops up, losing the rest of his clothes and heading for the bed, when a thought occurs. "How do you want me, sir?"

Phil looks like him speculatively. "On your back. Knees bent, and spread your legs."

Clint climbs onto the bed, and even though he was going to end up looking like this anyway, it's so _dirty_ like this, having to do it to himself, having to prove that he wants it. Phil leaves him like that for a minute, and that's worse, waiting for it. The bedroom door is open, and even though he knows the house is locked up, even though he could get up in a split second, it feels like he's stuck there, like anybody could come in and catch him like this.

It bothers him that it's kinda turning him on, the squirmy embarrassment of it, the wrongness. Phil comes back, and nope, he was wrong, having Phil looking at him like this is worse than waiting for it.

Phil sets the lube and condoms down on the bed, climbing up between Clint's legs; Phil leans over him, close enough to whisper in his ear. "You look good," he says, and before Clint's ready for it, he grips Clint's cock, moving his hand slowly as he kisses him.

Clint fumbles around, hunting blindly on the bed until he lands on the Astroglide; he sort of hits Phil's arm with it until he gets Phil's attention. "Here," he says, breaking away from Phil's mouth. "Please."

Phil smiles, and Clint senses that he is going to be in a world of trouble once Phil decides to stop being so nice to him. As it stands now, though, Phil might just be merciful. He clicks open the bottle, spreading the lube on his fingers; a little drips onto Clint's stomach, but he is so, so far past caring about that.

Phil leans down and starts kissing him again, and Clint spreads his legs wider as Phil's slick fingers find their way to his hole; for a while, he's just messing around, fingertips stroking over him, dipping in slightly. Clint wiggles, trying to get more, and Phil finally takes pity on him, sliding one finger into him and then two, rocking them back and forth. Clint pushes back encouragingly, but Phil is taking his sweet damn time, mostly because, Clint suspects, he knows he can.

But finally Phil is done playing around; he pulls his fingers out slowly, and Clint gives him an unamused look when he wipes them off on Clint's thigh before reaching for a condom. Clint's indignation lasts about a minute, because that's how long it takes before Phil is lining his cock up and pushing inside of him. It still hurts, even with the prep, too long since he did this; he'll feel it tomorrow, but it's completely worth it. 

Phil slowly presses in, opening him up, until he's all the way inside; he's biting his lip, eyes shut like he's trying to hang on, and Clint doesn't blame him. He knows how worked up _he_ is, and he wasn't the one getting a blowjob five minutes ago. Clint tries not move, trying to let Phil get it together, but it's really hard, when all he wants is Phil fucking him.

Phil sighs, like he's got it back under control, and he slowly moves his hips, sliding in and out; Clint makes a noise that might be a whimper. "You're going to hold off until I tell you," Phil tells him. Clint gives him a skeptical look. "Try it for me." He's moving a little faster now, harder, and it looks like it sucks to talk, but he's doing it anyway, carefully getting everything out of the way; Phil is, once again, a much better man than Clint is. "If I held you down-"

"Pretty sure that would be _awesome_ ," Clint says quickly.

"Thank god," Phil says, grabbing Clint's hands and lacing their fingers together, pulling them up over Clint's head and pressing them into the mattress. He bends in, kissing Clint hard, just once, and then they're off. Clint doesn't know if Phil is always like this, take-no-prisoners, hard and rough, but if he is, Clint doesn't think he'll have a problem with that. The only problem Clint is going to have is not coming before Phil tells him he can; there's almost certainly no way he can handle that on the first try. He doesn't think Phil will fault him for it, but that's not what _really_ matters. What matters is that it'll matter to Clint, not doing it right, not doing it perfect.

All this stuff is hard and weird, and Clint is starting to think he was supposed to have been doing it all along.

Then he isn't thinking about anything, because Phil is hitting him just right, just the perfect spot; he squeezes Phil's hands, and Phil just pushes him down harder. He's driving into Clint now, fast, and Clint looks up into his eyes. That same satisfaction is there, darker this time, and it sparks something in Clint, something that makes him want to move towards it, makes him want to make Phil feel like that all the time.

"Please kiss me," Clint says, and his voice sounds small- not bad, just small, to match the way he's feeling, the way Phil is making him feel. He feels overtaken, covered up, but he doesn't feel smothered; he feels protected instead. "Sir, please."

Phil makes a noise that Clint didn't know he could make, something snarling, and somehow it goes straight to Clint's dick. Phil crushes their mouths together, hard enough that it hurts a little; he bites at Clint's lips, and Clint moans brokenly.

"If I let you," Phil says, "could you?"

That's a serious question; Clint doesn't want to disappoint- and it's fucked up that a minute ago he was wondering if he could hold out and now he's wondering if he could go. "Yeah," he says, nodding, even though he's only about seventy-five percent sure, "yessir, yes, _please_."

"Then do it for me," Phil says, thrusting into him harder, faster. "Come for me."

Clint shuts his eyes; something about those words does it for him, the idea that this is something he's giving up to Phil, something Phil is demanding out of him. He rolls his hips, moving just so, so that Phil's hitting just the right place, and he groans loudly, coming hard, all over his stomach. He's barely finished before Phil is right there with him, his rhythm stuttering to a stop, ending with him buried all the way in Clint's ass, moaning as he comes.

Clint opens right up for his kiss; this time it's unhurried, still controlling but relaxed, calm. Phil tears himself away just long enough to toss the condom into the trash, and then he's back, lying down beside Clint and pulling him over for more kisses. Phil's a little smaller than Clint is, maybe an inch shorter, not nearly as built, but for some reason that just makes getting manhandled by him better, more attractive, like Clint's giving up more. Clint didn't know four days ago that he wanted to give anything up to Phil, but here they are.

"So that was great," Clint says, when they finally break for air.

Phil smiles. "No complaints here."

"Good," Clint says, "because we need to do that a lot more."

He kisses Clint on the forehead. "I think that can be arranged."

Clint moves a little closer, putting an arm around Phil. "So what does SAM mean, anyway?"

"Smart-Ass Masochist," Phil says, grinning.

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" Clint asks.

"Depends on your perspective," Phil tells him, "but I've got no problem with it."

"Cool," Clint says. "No promises, but that doesn't sound unlikely."

"I know," Phil says, and he doesn't look surprised at all when Clint hits him playfully.

"So, lots of stuff to talk about," Clint says.

"Yep," Phil says. "Not gonna be easy." He leans in, kissing Clint again. "But it'll be worth it."

Clint is starting to sense a theme.


	3. Chapter 3

It's actually not that strange, locking down one of the exercise rooms and turning off the security cameras. SHIELD agents get up to all manner of activities, a whole lot of which are need-to-know, and some skills just can't be shared.

The skills Phil and Clint will be practicing today are definitely not for sharing.

"Lock," Phil says loudly. "Security camera override."

"Camera disabled, Agent Coulson," the PA says, in a jerky computer voice.

"What've you got for me today, sir?" Clint says.

"Grab me that weight bench," Phil says, and Clint drags it over. He's getting used to doing what Coulson says, even more than he was before all this started; it's been more or less nightly, since they started training for this thing, training that Clint long since realized is excessive for the mission and just right for him and Phil.

"Here's how it works," Phil explains, picking up the small rolling suitcase he's brought with him and putting it on the bench. "While we're in the field-" they've been calling it that, partially so Clint doesn't screw up and say something like, 'So, Natasha, can you water the plants while we're off on our BDSM vacation?'- "you're already going to do everything I say exactly the way I say it. That's the D/s part."

"No problems there, sir," Clint says, with a little smirk.

Phil gives him one back. "Depending on how things go, we might be there for a couple of days. There's a very strong possibility that we'll need to play to maintain cover. That's S/M." Clint has several things to say regarding that statement and Phil's ulterior motives, but he keeps his mouth shut. "Doesn't have to be hard, just has to look natural. You can't look skittish or scared."

"What if it's good scared?" Clint says, because he's not sure yet if he could get past that point.

"Good scared we can probably do," Phil tells him, unzipping the suitcase. It's just full of stuff, some of which looks familiar, a lot of which doesn't.

"Have you always had this stuff?" Clint asks.

"I've had it for a while," Phil says, and Clint gets the feeling that's the best he's going to get right now. "Find what looks interesting."

"It all looks _interesting_ ," Clint says. "Some of it also looks terrifying."

Phil gives him an amused look. "Find what looks interesting that you want me to use on you."

He steps away, and Clint looks into the suitcase. A whip is on top. not the one from the other day, one that looks older and broken in, and Clint sets that to the side; it was pretty great the last time, but there's more to explore now. There's smaller stuff on top, a doubled-over belt, some kind of strap with a forked tongue, a plastic case with a suspect-looking wheel in it. Clint's more curious about the big things at the bottom, wrapped up in cloth.

Clint lifts one, unwrapping it, and he's not quite sure what he's looking at. The only thing he can think to compare it to is a cat o' nine tails, only it's got way more tails than that, soft wider ones, maybe suede, enough that it's sort of bushy. "That's a flogger," Phil provides, before he can ask.

"What does it feel like?" Clint asks, fondling the tails. 

"Turn around," Phil says, and Clint turns, holding still. Phil brings it down on his back, and it feels like- Clint doesn't have anything to compare it to, really. It feels good, a solid thump. Phil hands the flogger back to him. "There are a couple more in there, if you're interested."

Clint pulls them out one by one, unwrapping them and laying them out. There are five of them, made from a range of materials, something soft and wide all the way up to some terrifying braided thing that Clint wants nothing to do with. He picks one of them up, swinging it. "Are these bicycle inner tubes?"

"They used to be," Phil says.

Clint sets that one aside too. "You're not hitting me with tires."

Phil doesn't seem offended. "Your call."

Clint looks at the three that are left; he thinks he can probably handle those, at least for a while. "Okay," he says, before he can lose his nerve. "Let's do this."

Phil nods. "Get undressed. You can leave your underwear on if you want, but that's it." Clint takes his shirt and pants off; he thinks about it, and he pulls off his boxer briefs too, putting them on the pile. He's never been particularly body-shy, and if he doesn't do it here, there's no way he could handle it in front of a bunch of strangers and possible targets. 

Phil has his stuff laid out, and he points at an exercise mat. "Take that and put it under the chin-up bar."

Clint does as he's told, looking expectantly at Phil, who walks over. He takes Clint by the back of the neck, pulling him in and kissing him, and Clint relaxes into it. He's getting used to that, lots of kisses from Phil, and it's pretty much the best. "Face the wall and put your hands around the bar. Don't move them unless I say."

Clint does; it's a pretty comfortable distance, where it's set, and it's bolted into the wall, firmly enough that Clint doesn't think he can yank it out. He's only there for a minute when Phil is back with him. He runs his hands down Clint's sides and onto his hips, holding him close while he kisses his neck. "We're going to go slow to start," Phil tells him. "I don't need much from you, but I do need you to tell me if I start to get near your spine or your kidneys. It shouldn't happen, but if it does, yellow."

"Got it, sir," Clint says.

Phil's hand sneaks around, lightly palming Clint's cock. "What would you say if I wanted to fuck you while we were playing?"

Clint grins. "Certainly wouldn't say yellow to that one, sir."

Phil makes an amused noise, grabbing a handful of Clint's hair and tugging on it it, turning him so he can bite Clint's ear. "Let's begin," Phil says, stepping back. 

The first touches of the flogger on his back startle him, even though they're whisper-light; he calms down, getting his head in the game as Phil starts to hit him. It's different, definitely. The flogger swishes softly as Phil moves it, bringing it down in a regular pattern, first one side of his back, then the other, like he's making a figure eight with it. 

It's kind of nice, brushing against his back like that, weirdly like he's going through a car wash. Unfortunately, it only takes a couple of minutes before Clint's pretty bored with it; he's gotten more exhilaration out of a pillow fight. He can tell Phil's swinging it pretty hard, giving it as much as he's got, but you can't use a Bic to do a blowtorch's job. 

Clint flexes his hands. "Okay, you're just pissing me off with that thing."

Phil stops. "Because it's too hard, or because it's not hard enough?"

"Not enough," Clint says. "It feels like you're just fucking around, sir." He bites his lip; Phil says he likes the smart-ass thing, but Clint's still having a little bit- a _lot_ \- of trouble believing him. He can't stop thinking that he's supposed to be someone different now, someone who doesn't mouth off every five seconds.

"We can work with that," Phil says, setting the flogger down. He picks up another one, bringing it over and showing it to Clint; it looks similar, but the tails are thicker. "Let's go harder."

Clint feels himself tense, not knowing if he's just screwed up. Phil puts a hand on the back of his neck, rubbing circles with his thumb, and Clint tries to relax into it. Phil steps away, and Clint can hear the swish of the flogger as Phil tests it out. "Starting now," Phil says, and Clint braces himself; the flogger comes down, and Clint relaxes. That's more like it, heavier without being painful- that's a weird thought, that getting hit in the back with a glorified cat qualifies as 'not painful' in Clint's world now. "Better?" Phil asks.

"Yes, sir," he says. "Feels good."

"Good," Phil says, and then he hits him again, just like with the last one, back and forth, nice and smooth. This is much better, hard enough that Clint can just shut his eyes and enjoy it, the rhythm of it. Phil's hitting him in the same spots every time, right near his shoulder blades; after a little while, they start to ache, a good kind of ache, a soreness that goes deep.

It's not quite enough, though. It's taking him to a nice place, a good, mellow one, but it's not quite there, not quite where he wants to get. He's aware that he might be squirming a little; he feels like he might be screwing up again.

Phil stops, stepping forward. He puts his hand on Clint's jaw, pulling him over to kiss him. "You look worried," Phil says. "Stop worrying. We're figuring this out. It's not instantaneous or one-size-fits-all." He walks over and picks up the last flogger; it's different than the other two, square tails this time, stiffer. "Third time's the charm."

Phil walks away, and Clint puts his head down, rounding his shoulders. He doesn't get a warning this time; Phil just starts hitting him, and Clint's kind of disappointed again. Phil's barely tapping him, the tails just scratching against his skin. But then, of out nowhere, Phil hits him hard, and Clint jumps. It's rough, stinging, way more like the whip than the other floggers, and Clint moans, unable to keep it in.

"There we go," Phil says approvingly. It's faster this time, back and forth, back and forth, and it hurts really badly, like it's cutting him open, even though he knows it isn't. Clint wants to get away and he wants more; he's not quite to the point of endorphin rush, but he's getting there, he's very close. He figured he'd probably like it, but he didn't expect anything like this. He's panting, needy, and his cock is so hard that he almost can't stand it. He grips the bar so tightly that his hands hurt, arching his back for more, moving into Phil's strikes.

All of a sudden it stops; Clint makes a noise of protest, inarticulate and desperate. He was getting so close, enjoying it so much, but now there's nothing. He writhes, pleading for it, trying to show how much he needs it.

Then Phil's right behind him; he grabs Clint by his midsection and yanks him closer, flush with his own body. Clint gasps, shocked by the contact, shocked by how much it hurts to have pressure on his back. Phil's just as bad off as Clint, his hard cock rubbing against Clint's ass through his pants; he sinks his teeth into the join of Clint's neck and shoulder, and Clint whimpers loudly, his head falling back. Phil's free hand roams Clint's body, stopping to torture his nipple.

"Ask me," Phil says. "You know what you want. Ask me for it."

"Please," Clint breathes. "Please, I want more."

"Not good enough," Phil tells him, though he moves his hand, taking hold of Clint's dick and stroking it. "You can do better. Go on. _Beg_ me for it."

"Please," Clint says again. "God, please, sir, I want- hit me again, fucking _hit_ me, I need it so much, I want you to do it, want to do it for you, sir-"

Phil cuts him off, kissing him hard. "That's what I want to hear."

He steps away, and Clint rounds his shoulders, presenting, all but demanding it. When Phil starts again he does it hard, hard enough that Clint yells, but Clint doesn't say a word, doesn't want it to stop at all. He just wants more and more and more and then he can feel something give, something move inside him, and then he's flying, hitting the endorphins hard, totally gone.

He has no idea how long he stays like that, how long Phil keeps it up. He can hear when Phil puts down the flogger, and then Phil's hands are on him, guiding him. "I'm gonna fuck you now," Phil tells him, rough and hoarse, shoving him over something padded, pressing slick fingers into him, and it sounds like the best plan in the history of ever.

Phil puts a hand on his shoulder as he pushes inside of him, and Clint doesn't know if he's ever been fucked so hard in his entire life. It feels so good, amazing; it doesn't even matter when or if he comes, just so long as Phil keeps doing this to him, using him like this. 

Phil's thrusts get ragged, desperate, unpredictable, and then he slams home, hard; Clint can feel him come, and that's so unbelievably hot that Clint kinda wants to come himself. Then Phil is pushing at his hips, rolling him over. He leans down and puts his mouth around Clint's dick, sucking him off fast and messy; "Come for me," he says, just before he goes back down, and Clint doesn't waste any time at all before doing it, his hips jerking up to meet Phil's mouth.

Then Phil is wrapping him up in a blanket, offering him a bottle of water; he drinks it quickly, some of it running down his chin, but at this point he's so covered in sweat that it hardly makes a difference. He's pretty sure that if he could feel anything right now, he'd be sore as hell- his back already hurts, even through the fog- but he could not possibly give less of a damn about that than he does right now.

"Jesus Christ, sir," he says, turning so he can rest his cheek on Phil's chest.

"I know what you mean," Phil says, still breathless. "That was amazing."

Clint looks at him. "I did okay?"

Phil shakes his head. "So much better than okay."

"I'm glad," Clint says. "Pretty sure I was screwing it up."

Phil bends down and kisses him. "I need you to stop thinking like that. You screwing up is forgetting how I take my coffee. If this gets screwed up, then it's my fault. The rules are different."

Clint shuts his eyes, smiling. "I'm starting to think you like rules."

"If you didn't too, we wouldn't be here," Phil says, running his hand through Clint's hair.

"What would you have done if I ended up playing the top?" Clint asks.

"I'd have taken it," Phil tells him, shrugging. "I'll do whatever I need to for the good of a mission. You already know that."

"I only would have been playing," Clint admits. "Whatever it is, I don't have it."

"There's a reason they call it 'play,' Clint," Phil says. "You do what you want and what makes you happy. It's not have it or don't."

"Let me rephrase that, sir," he says. "I suck at it."

"You barely got to try," Phil points out.

"Do you want me to?" Clint counters.

Phil pauses. "Well, you got me there."

"Aha," Clint says. "I don't want to try either."

"If you don't want to, then don't," Phil says. "I'm certainly not going to make you."

"Just so you know, I'm glad you didn't play along," Clint tells him.

"Why's that?"

"Oh, I don't know," Clint says. "I just get the strangest feeling I wouldn't be high on endorphins, naked, newly fucked, and in your arms."

"And all in the middle of the gym," Phil adds, pulling him closer. "What will the neighbors think?"

Clint yawns. "I sure hope the neighbors don't think anything, because I think Delancey and Jackson are sparring next door."

"Don't worry," Phil says. "If you leave walking funny, they'll think I kicked your ass."

"Little do they know," Clint says.

"Just try not to smile," Phil tells him.

Clint pulls him down to kiss him. "Not sure I can do that, sir."

"Not sure I want you to try," Phil says, grinning. Clint just laughs, kissing him again.


	4. Chapter 4

In all, Clint gets a solid month of training. Except for all the sex, it's really not that different from training for any undercover mission that requires extra skills. They're skills he never knew he didn't know, but that's not really different, either. He still balks at the whip, but he learns to flog just in case; he won't do it to Phil, but he puts the fear of God into some pillows.

He spends a lot of time in crafting his false identity, making sure he knows enough to be convincing; maybe he spends more time than it strictly necessary, because it's cooler than learning the ins and outs of political hierarchies. For the first time in his entire life Clint has a profile on a social networking site, albeit FetLife, and he even has seventeen friends. Granted, three of them are people- presumably guys- with nothing but pictures of their dicks in their profiles, so maybe he's friends with fourteen people and three penises. 

It's stupid, but every time he sees _trgtprctc is owned by Whiplash64_ on his profile, he feels a little thrill; sometimes he leaves notes on Phil's wall, partially to build credibility, but mostly for the thought of Phil checking his email in the middle of the day and finding them. It's even worse- for Phil- when Clint figures out what email address Phil used to sign up and strategically sends him ridiculous things, particularly when they're in the same room; Phil's reactions would be invisible to someone else, but they're hilarious to Clint.

At the same time, it's different from training for any mission he's ever been on, because he's never been on a mission that _meant_ something like this one. Then again, maybe that's the same, too; his ass is always on the line, his future and safety always in doubt, and it's just that there's more to it this time.

Soon enough, they're rolling out. The dungeon's not far from the base, just on the other side of the city, but they check into a hotel; definitely better to get followed back there than get followed back to base. By the time they finish dinner, it's already time to get ready to go out. Their clothing is and isn't what Clint expected; Phil gets all black, of course, because what in the hell _else_ was he going to wear. Clint's clothes- well, honestly, he didn't know they made purple shirts with buckles on them, and if he moves the wrong way he'll pop a seam on these pants, but it could be _so_ much worse. He's seen pictures.

Thankfully, they don't meet anyone in the hall or in the elevator to the parking garage; right now they just look like they're on their way to a gay bar, but that's probably bad enough. "There's another thing," Phil says, as they approach the car, and Clint doesn't like his tone, the 'I don't like what has to happen' one.

"Hit me with it," Clint tells him.

Phil reaches into a pocket of the suitcase and comes out with a collar; it's a big, black, imposing thing, a huge ring hanging off the front. It looks scary and uncomfortable, and Clint suspects that's the point.

"I need you to wear this," Phil says, and there's a pause just long enough that both of them hear it, "while we're on the mission."

Clint swallows, nodding, trying to keep his head in the game. "Sure."

"There's a leash, too," Phil tells him, sounding apologetic.

"Just try not to choke me." Clint takes the collar from him and puts it on, and he was right; it is uncomfortable, making him keep his neck straighter than he's used to. He's very aware of it as he picks up the bags and puts them in the car, sliding into the driver's seat. Phil climbs in beside him, leaning over and taking him by the back of his hair, pulling him in to kiss him. That makes things a little better, a little less scary.

Clint starts the car, and they're off.

The target's name is Jean-Baptiste. The guy's running coke, but that's FBI stuff, stuff where SHIELD's involvement will just be a bonus. No, SHIELD's concerned about the guns he's got; some of it's old Stark tech, but they're much more concerned with what his engineers have done with it, redefining the BFG and passing it out like candy in places where the biggest gun wins.

SHIELD would kinda like for half the world not to go up in flames.

"The owner's a friendly," Phil tells him. "Willing to take the hit to her revenue if it means the bastard goes down."

Clint raises an eyebrow. "Not exactly what I expected from a lady who runs a sex club."

"How many times do I have to tell you that this isn't a sex club?" Phil says, amused more than exasperated. "The sex club is too shady for words."

"Sorry, sir," Clint says. "I just get confused, what with all the sex people have there."

"Sometimes I can't tell if you're genuinely confused or just being a smart-ass for the sake of being a smart-ass."

"Can't I be confused _and_ a smart-ass?"

"You often are."

Clint rolls his eyes. "Thanks for that, sir."

Phil's directions lead him into an industrial district and up to a boxy white building. Except for the address on the mailbox, the building is unmarked; apart from the low thump of bass that's audible from outside, it could be anything at all, a shoe factory, a place where they print Bibles. It adds a little something all on its own, the secrecy.

When they get out of the car, Phil puts the leash on him, putting the loop around his hand; but then he looks towards the trunk of the car, frowning. "Open up," he says, and Clint opens his mouth, wondering where he's going with this; Phil puts the leash between his lips. "Close. _Now_ get the gear."

Clint gives him an unamused look, but he can't start bratting this early in the game. He pops the trunk, pulling the bags out and setting them on the pavement. As he does it, he looks up, taking in the landscape, possible escape points, possible vantage points.

"Got it?" Phil asks, watching him look, and Clint nods. "Good." Phil takes the leash, and Clint smacks his lips, trying to make the taste of leather go away. "Pick up the bags and let's go."

Clint follows Phil up to the door, where Phil knocks; after a long moment, a woman in a shirt that says SECURITY answers, showing them in. The entryway is tiny, a desk and a few chairs, and a woman in a red corset and a long skirt is saying something to the youngish man sitting behind the desk. She looks up, taking the two of them in. "Can I help you?"

"Mistress Gwendolyn," Phil says, extending his hand. "We haven't had the pleasure. I'm Whiplash64."

"Anthony, so nice to finally meet you," she says, shaking it.

"Likewise," Phil says, and Clint kind of feels like busting up; the idea of Phil having to call himself that is just too funny. "This is my boy, Gavin." She doesn't move for a moment, not until Phil tugs on his leash and nods, and then she reaches out and shakes Clint's hand too.

"Ascalon here will help you with these forms, then I can show you around," she tells him, "and there's no charge for first-time guests."

The man at the desk cards them, and Phil hands over their fake IDs with the matter-of-fact air of someone who uses fake ones far more than he uses his real one- does Phil even have a real non-SHIELD ID? Clint can't imagine him going to the DMV. Clint's never had one himself, so it's not like he could throw stones.

Thinking about all this is easier than thinking about his surroundings, about what he's going to find here, though there isn't much yet. The foyer is just a box, a little crowded even with just five people in it. The walls are glass, but there are curtains blocking all of them, hiding the good stuff from whoever- probably people like him.

Clint signs on the dotted line- he was really hoping for Gavin Rossdale or Gavin MacLeod, but no, he's Gavin Jennings, the hell kind of a name is that- and hands his clipboard back to Ascalon. "Won't you come on back?" Mistress Gwendolyn says; Ascalon presses a button, and Clint hears the bolts on the door thump. She pushes it open, waving Phil and Clint on, and Clint steels himself and walks through.

He is relieved and disappointed by what he sees; all it is is a lounge, comfortable-looking sofas and low tables, pillows on the floor, mellow music playing. People are talking, laughing, snacking on things, and if it weren't for the people in collars and the various states of undress, it would look like a totally normal club.

"This is our social area," she tells them. "No play out here, just hanging out. List of rules there on the wall, but you saw those on our website. There are the bathrooms- no sex in the bathrooms, by the way, please keep it in the play area. It's not fair to the voyeurs or the people who need to pee. Come on, I'll show you the good stuff."

There's a big fire door that someone's painted green, and she opens it, holding it for Clint and Phil. Despite how little he actually likes undercover work, Clint has perfected his ability not to let shock or confusion show, his ability to be blasé about things he's supposed to be blasé about; he is so very glad he doesn't have to worry about it right now.

There are definitely people fucking, and there is definitely a huge X-shaped cross in the corner, and a woman at the back wall is definitely beating the holy fuck out of somebody. It's kind of overwhelming, but it's all very tidy and well-spaced and attractively lit, like someone's taken real care in setting it up. He looks over at Phil, and Phil just looks impressed, like it isn't new but it is very appealing.

Clint knows that look very well, because he's been at the receiving end of it more than once. It's a good look on him.

Mistress Gwendolyn is pointing out features, and Clint is still trying to wrap his head around exactly what he's seeing. She's pointing out the fire extinguisher and the AED and the first aid kit and this is in absolutely no way what Clint expected from this mission, even after all his preparation.

Welcome the fuck to SHIELD.

"You can put your bags on the rack here," she tells them, and Clint hoists them up, glad to be done toting them around. "Jean-Baptiste is the one wearing the white shirt and the purple vest," she says; she's still smiling and looking at them like nothing's wrong, but her voice is lowered. He's seen junior agents who weren't this cool and collected when it comes to secrecy, but then again, that's probably a huge part of her line of work. "Doesn't usually come out on a Friday, but here we are. The man with him, the thin one, that's his slave. The main reason I didn't kick him out as soon as he got here is so I could check up on the poor guy. You want to live under a contract, that's your business, but you treat somebody that bad and bring it into my club, you make it my business."

"We thank you for your cooperation," Phil tells her.

"My pleasure," she says. She gives Phil a hard, searching look. "I don't know if you're one of us or not, Anthony, but you should know that every single time we find a bad apple and throw it out, everything gets a little bit better for all of us."

Phil smiles. "Believe me, Mistress, I am very well aware."

She nods, and Clint gets the feeling Phil has just passed some test. "I'll leave you to it, then," she tells them. "If you have any questions, I'll be around to help."

Phil sees the way Clint is still kind of boggling; he's keeping his eyes peeled, watching Jean-Baptiste, but he's spending the rest of his brainpower wondering what the fuck. "Let's go out front," he says, giving the leash a little tug. "We've got all night."

"We need to play," Clint says, his eyes straying to the target again. "If he's here tonight, no telling if he'll come again this weekend. We need to draw his attention as soon as we can."

"Read my mind," Phil says, running his hand along Clint's back.

"Doing my job, sir," he replies, and Phil pulls him forward to kiss him before walking away. It takes him a second to remember he's on a leash, and he gets jerked forward before he gets his shit together.

They find a spot on one of the couches in the front. There are pillows on the floor, and Phil snaps at him, pointing to one of them and then the spot between his feet; Clint drags it over and sets up camp, arranging himself between Phil's legs. Phil's talking to a slightly giggly girl who's wearing a skirt that's so short it's practically a belt; the guy next to her is drawing circles on her bare shoulder with his fingertips, only halfway listening to the conversation, and Clint's with him. She and Phil are talking about stuff that would be mortifying elsewhere, about the finer points of handcuffs- Phil's told her he knows so much because he's a locksmith, this just keeps getting better. Now they're talking about bruises, about how well they stand out; the girl is pulling down the front of her blouse to show him the teeth marks on her breasts, and he doesn't understand these people, how they can just talk like this, _be_ like this and be so okay with it. 

Suddenly, he has the totally bizarre realization that he _is_ these people, that what they do isn't foreign to him at all; he can't decide if it's a good feeling or not, knowing that unfamiliar is familiar, that he's become something other than what he used to be. 

At least, what he thought he used to be. It's mixed up in his head, whether this was always something in him or something he accidentally made himself into, whether that matters at all, which one would be worse.

He wraps an arm around Phil's leg, letting himself cling a little- he's been known to cling occasionally, and if there ever was a situation where it was totally normal, this is it. Phil doesn't stop talking, but he puts a hand on Clint's shoulder, his thumb tracking across his collarbone.

Clint frowns, realizing something. There's a lull in conversation, and Clint looks up at Phil. "Are you wearing leather jeans, sir?"

"Yes," Phil says, and Clint's going to have to learn that trick, the 'why would that be odd' look he does so well. "Why?"

"I just didn't notice until now," he says. He presses his face against Phil's knee, just to mess with him. "They smell nice."

The girl laughs, and the guy stands up, holding out a hand. She takes it and lets him pull her up, pausing to peel herself off the pleather of the couch.

"Come up here and sit beside me, boy," Phil says, patting the couch next to him, and Clint unfolds himself, coming to sit next to him. Phil puts a possessive hand on his leg, like anybody could possibly be confused about what's going on here. "What are you seeing?" Phil says, leaning over to talk into his ear.

"Not a whole lot," Clint says. "Either he's got very subtle associates or he's here alone. Maybe he'll have somebody outside, but I didn't see anything."

"Air support will handle that," Phil tells him. "We've got ground, too."

As they're talking, Jean-Baptiste's slave comes walking by, headed towards the kitchen area, and he turns his head, not so subtly sizing Phil and Clint up.

Clint tracks him, all the way into the kitchen and all the way back to the door. "I got a weird feeling some shit's gonna go down, sir," Clint says.

"Then keep an eye out," Phil tells him, not trying to talk him out of it; Clint's weird feelings, while not always reliable, have proven useful in the past. He squeezes Clint's knee. "Let's get this show on the road."

Phil leads him into the back; they grab the bags, and Phil pulls him over towards the corner, right where Clint wasn't entirely sure he wanted to go. The cross is massive, set at an angle so that one of the top points is resting on each wall; it's not bolted down, but Clint doesn't think he could possibly shift it, not without help. There are ropes and clips on it, the better to secure him with, something they haven't screwed around with much. Phil unclips his leash and points, and Clint drags over some chairs, setting up.

"No sex," Clint says firmly, taking his shirt off.

"Wasn't even going to suggest it," Phil says, putting the suitcase up on a chair. He's got a golf bag tonight, too, for carrying canes, as well as the foam bat that is oddly effective. "It'll be the whip tonight. We want to attract the right audience."

"Yes, sir," Clint says, stripping out of his pants; after hesitating for a good minute, he pulls off his underwear as well. If they're trying to put on a show, then by god he'll put one on.

Phil takes a pair of soft cuffs out of the suitcase, taking them off the ring they're clipped to. "Hold out your wrists," Phil says, and Clint does; he puts a cuff around each of them; they've each got a clip on them, in order to hook them to each other or something else. "Feeling good? Ready to start?"

"Yeah, I'm good," Clint replies. He's still jittery about doing this in front of all these people, most of whom he's never even spoken to, but he's not backing down. Phil takes ahold of his hair, tugging on it, smiling in that particularly attractive way that he does when he's going to do something bad to Clint. No sooner than he's done it, though, he lets Clint go, moving past him and reaching into the suitcase and coming out with his pistol, pulling the magazine out and slapping it in. All Clint sees is the emergency door swinging shut, but if Phil's making a beeline for it, then that's all he needs to see. He pulls his rifle out of the bag with the canes, ignoring the horrified gasps around him; he's already out the door before he realizes that he didn't even put on any pants, but there's no time for that now.

Jean-Baptiste is running across the parking lot; he runs straight past the cars and on down the street. Phil goes after him, and Clint goes after Phil, even though he's not remotely sure he'll be able to keep up. Phil doesn't look it, but he's one of those weird people who thinks running is enjoyable; this is exactly the kind- pretty much the only kind- of situation that Clint cares to run in, and if he could get out of it he would.

Clint doesn't see the cop car until Phil and the target go flying past it, but the siren doesn't whoop until Clint goes by. 

"Stop right there!" one of them yells.

"Sorry!" Clint yells back, and he keeps right on running. He hears the police car's doors open and shut again, loud footsteps on the pavement behind him. They're following, but they're not firing, which is kind of a miracle considering that Clint is butt naked and carrying a sniper rifle, so Clint just keeps right on going.

The police are gaining on him, but Phil is gaining on the target. They reach a dead end, and the target makes a turn; Phil follows and Clint doesn't, going for a ladder on the nearest building. He jumps for it, getting a hand on the bottom rung, and that's when the cops take him down.

So that's how Clint ends up face-down on the hood of a police car, naked, wearing a collar; the LEOs have a sense of humor, though, because they've just clipped the cuffs he's already wearing together, which is a lot more comfortable than zip ties. He courteously doesn't slip them, because he can see Phil talking to them, flashing his ID; Sitwell is pushing the target into the back of a SHIELD sedan, no doubt just keeping him there until the helicopter shows up.

The cops unclip his wrists and let him up, turning him over to Phil, who hands him a blanket. "You okay?" Phil asks, as Clint wraps it around his waist.

"I just got tackled naked, you figure it out," Clint says.

"I just chased a guy five blocks in leather pants, how do you think I feel?"

"Worth it," Clint says firmly.

"Definitely," Phil agrees. "I'm gonna go back and pick up our stuff, and then we'll debrief," Phil tells him. "Please don't make a pun, I've already had enough tonight."

"Way too easy anyway," Clint says.

Phil smiles at him fondly, and they go their separate ways.

They have their briefing at SHIELD almost as soon as they get back. There seem to be more people than necessary in attendance, but they must be disappointed; Fury has no interest in the stuff that's interesting, and Clint and Phil have no interest in divulging it. They have the meeting that's interesting at home, alone. Phil likes it when they check in, so they're both on the same page; Clint's not so much a talker by nature, and neither is Phil, but they're so used to briefings and debriefings and rebriefings that it's nothing at all.

"You should wear those leather pants again," Clint says.

"You didn't even know they were leather," Phil points out.

Clint shrugs. "Doesn't mean they didn't look hot."

"We'll see," Phil says. "I might have to have them repaired after that chase."

"Everything about that sounds uncomfortable," Clint says.

"You have no idea," Phil tells him.

"I actually did rip a seam in my pants trying to take them off," Clint says.

"Let's just wear jeans from now on," Phil says.

"Agreed," Clint says. There's a pause. "We should probably move on to the stuff that's not pants."

"Right," Phil says. "I like those cuffs on you," he offers.

"We can do that," Clint allows. "Clipping them to things, I'm still not that sure about."

"It's fine," Phil says. "They're just a good look."

"No problem, then," Clint tells him. "But I'm not doing the leash again. It's a pain in the ass."

Phil smirks. "Not a pain in the neck?" Clint gives him a look. "But agreed. Pain from this end, too."

Here comes the big thing, the thing Clint is most unsure of. "That collar, I." He pauses, trying to tread lightly. "I can't do it. Not yet."

Phil doesn't say anything for a moment. "Wasn't your color, anyway," he says finally. Clint laughs, the tension breaking. "If that's not what you want, then we won't. Not until you're ready. Maybe never."

"Maybe never's going too far," Clint says. 

"We'll figure it out," Phil tells him.

"For now," Clint says, grinning. "I seem to remember that I was gonna get whipped, sir."

"We were rudely interrupted," Phil says.

"Damn us for having jobs," Clint says.

"Definitely gets in the way," Phil says.

"Come on, before they expect us to save the world again," Clint says, standing up and holding out his hand.

"Bossy," Phil chides.

Clint smiles. "Then come on and show me the error of my ways."

"Don't worry," Phil tells him. "I intend to."

\--

Clint has to ditch Gavin's FetLife when the mission ends, which is kind of a shame, because he can't put any pictures of his face on the new one- not exactly the most appropriate thing in the world for someone in his line of work to do. By now, it doesn't surprise him whatsoever that Phil already has his own personal account. A lot of things about Phil don't surprise him anymore, but they only seem to be good things.

When he sees _MovingTarget is being considered by suit_yourself_ , it's good, but it's not the same kind of feeling as it was before. Right underneath it, though, it says _MovingTarget is considering suit_yourself_ , and that makes it feel better. He's told that's not how you're supposed to do it, that it's not what that really means, that it only ever goes one way, lead and follow, call and response. He's told that he's not supposed to have a choice, that he's being ungrateful, that he'll never get anyone to keep him that way.

But why should he start caring now? It works for them, and that's all that matters.


End file.
